Last night someone
cut down a tree that was three thousand years old
Last night, someone cut down a tree
that was three thousand years old,
standing tall over the field.
In the night, its pieces burned,
warming the frozen men,
and in the mist, the glow
marked the site of its death,
the same as its long life,
the same as its brief bonfire.
Yesterday, its shadow
stretched to the distant house,
crossed the creek that was not there
when it first emerged.
Today, a pit with dangling roots,
fragments of branches and bark,
marks where its powerful sap
flourished through the centuries.
In its crown, animals that no longer exist
nested,
and under its branches,
infinite storms erupted.
Its high arms
rose from among the low clouds.
Between its roots,
our ancestors
hid from the beasts,
and later,
treasures were hidden,
love letters,
stolen objects,
and someone carved
with a pocketknife
words that cannot be read.
Last night, someone cut down a tree
that was three thousand years old,
standing tall over the world.
(Translated by Araceli del Luján Lacore)
Ants
This
living path
crossing the garden
comes from a land
that isn’t ours
though we constantly
traverse the surface of another kingdom.
We know nothing of its tiny jungles
the desolate desert of a tile
the fleeting waterfall of an open tap
the consecutive holes a staircase unfolds.
Below and around us
another infinite world lives.
It disturbs us that this domain
resembles so closely to what we see
from the window of the twentieth floor
far below and at our feet;
murderers heroes and villains
have their time and occupy their spaces
in a manner we consider mechanical.
The meaning of those days so different
is an enigma,
we quickly dismiss it
so we feel terrified
when we watch a child
paying the ants
his deepest attention:
he’ll forget as he grows the times
he fixed his eyes on a different kingdom
though our kingdoms
began on the same day
(Translated by Araceli del Luján Lacore)
Haute
couture
There’s
no worse profession
than being a fashion designer
who decrees
that for this season
the length of verses
must reach the knee
or fall to the ankles.
Their sour mannequins then parade
across every available runway
resembling oversized strawberries
a massive salmon
teetering on huge high heels
or absurd pots flipped upside down
ready for the promised applause
of the repetitive
tedious news.
Whether the “how” should be half-naked
or if it’s proper to show the “what ”
their creators assure that if invited
Homer and T.S. Eliot would say ‘’It’s fine’’
and nearly no one would hesitate to agree.
In every matter the edict of fashion
is the worst thing in this world.
(Translated by Araceli del Luján Lacore)
that was three thousand years old,
standing tall over the field.
In the night, its pieces burned,
warming the frozen men,
and in the mist, the glow
marked the site of its death,
the same as its long life,
the same as its brief bonfire.
stretched to the distant house,
crossed the creek that was not there
when it first emerged.
Today, a pit with dangling roots,
fragments of branches and bark,
marks where its powerful sap
flourished through the centuries.
nested,
and under its branches,
infinite storms erupted.
Its high arms
rose from among the low clouds.
Between its roots,
our ancestors
hid from the beasts,
and later,
treasures were hidden,
love letters,
stolen objects,
and someone carved
with a pocketknife
words that cannot be read.
that was three thousand years old,
standing tall over the world.
crossing the garden
comes from a land
that isn’t ours
though we constantly
traverse the surface of another kingdom.
We know nothing of its tiny jungles
the desolate desert of a tile
the fleeting waterfall of an open tap
the consecutive holes a staircase unfolds.
Below and around us
another infinite world lives.
It disturbs us that this domain
resembles so closely to what we see
from the window of the twentieth floor
far below and at our feet;
murderers heroes and villains
have their time and occupy their spaces
in a manner we consider mechanical.
The meaning of those days so different
is an enigma,
we quickly dismiss it
so we feel terrified
when we watch a child
paying the ants
his deepest attention:
he’ll forget as he grows the times
he fixed his eyes on a different kingdom
though our kingdoms
began on the same day
than being a fashion designer
who decrees
that for this season
the length of verses
must reach the knee
or fall to the ankles.
Their sour mannequins then parade
across every available runway
resembling oversized strawberries
a massive salmon
teetering on huge high heels
or absurd pots flipped upside down
ready for the promised applause
of the repetitive
tedious news.
Whether the “how” should be half-naked
or if it’s proper to show the “what ”
their creators assure that if invited
Homer and T.S. Eliot would say ‘’It’s fine’’
and nearly no one would hesitate to agree.
In every matter the edict of fashion
is the worst thing in this world.